


covered in you

by julianblackthornspancakes



Category: The Dark Artifices Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: F/M, Smut, Teacher-Student Relationship, and emma needs extra credit, julian is an art teacher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28937502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julianblackthornspancakes/pseuds/julianblackthornspancakes
Summary: Emma Carstairs is not the best artist in Professor Blackthorn's painting class. She needs inspiration, and Professor Blackthorn knows just how to help.
Relationships: Julian Blackthorn/Emma Carstairs
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	covered in you

“Miss Carstairs?” 

Emma jerked her head up to look at Professor Blackthorn. She hoped he hadn’t been calling on her for long; she’d been talking with Cristina pretty intensely. 

“Yes, sir?” 

“I need to speak with you after class,” he said. 

Emma groaned inwardly. She couldn’t be in trouble, right? She’d turned in all of her work on time, and she only talked with Tina when Professor Blackthorn wasn’t teaching. Mostly. 

“Sure,” she said. “No problem.” She gave Professor Blackthorn an exaggerated thumbs-up and a too-bright smile, immediately regretting both. 

She thought she caught the shadow of a smile as he turned away. 

“That was weird,” muttered Cristina. “He almost never calls on you.” 

Emma frowned. It was true - she was definitely not Professor Blackthorn’s favorite student. He didn’t  _ dislike  _ her, per se. He just never seemed to notice her. 

Not that there was much to notice. Emma was only taking his Painting I course to satisfy her visual arts credit. Her art was anything but noteworthy, seeming to lack all of the sharpness and brightness that seemed to come so easily to her classmates. It was almost comical to observe the captivating paintings of faeries and magic Cristina always conjured up on the easel next to Emma’s half-hearted splatterings. 

“Maybe he wants to talk about my last painting,” Emma said. “It was particularly shitty.” 

Cristina shook her head. “It was not.  _ Ode to Blob III  _ was my favorite creation yet.” 

“I mean, it was a vast improvement from  _ Ode to Blob’ _ s  _ I  _ and  _ II _ . Still a far cry from fine art, though.” Emma sighed and tied her hair back, securing it with the blue scrunchie she kept around her wrist. 

Professor Blackthorn shut off the overhead projector and snapped the lights back on. “Good work today, guys. I’ll see you all tomorrow.” 

Emma shot a forlorn look at her friend. 

“You’ll be fine,” promised Cristina. “I’ll tell Mark and Kieran to send good vibes your way.” 

“I don’t think either one of them knows what a  _ vibe  _ is. They’d probably spend the entire date looking for vibes on Etsy, and end up sending me a vibrator.” 

Cristina laughed. “At least they’d be thinking of you.” 

Emma gave Cristina a tight hug. “Have fun. Make good decisions. Don’t have sex in public forums.” 

“Back at you,” laughed Cristina, already ducking out the door. 

Emma rolled her shoulders and shoved her notebook into her bag. She slung it over her shoulder and started down the aisle. 

Professor Blackthorn was bent over his desk, sorting through papers. His chocolate brown had fallen into his face, obscuring his glasses and the sea-blue eyes beneath. She’d learned so many specific names for colors during her time in this class, but she still couldn’t pin down the exact color of his eyes. Not quite turquoise, not quite sapphire. Not cyan or teal, yet somehow both. 

“You needed to see me?” 

Those eyes of indescribable hue met hers. He smiled. “Ms. Carstairs, yes. I needed to talk to you about your recent artwork.” 

Emma frowned. “Okay.” 

She couldn’t guess what could possibly be wrong with her artwork. It wasn’t like she’d painted swinging ball sacks tattooed with swear words or anything. And even if she had, she was under the impression that it wouldn’t be a problem.

_ Paint whatever you want,  _ Professor Blackthorn had said on the first day of class.  _ It’s art - you can’t get it wrong.  _

She followed Professor Blackthorn into the painting area of the classroom, where all of their easels were still mounted with drying artwork. He stopped in front of the familiar mess that was  _ Ode to Blob III _ . 

“There she is,” said Emma proudly. Every work in her ongoing  _ Ode to Blob  _ series followed a similar pattern: pretty color + big blob + smiley face and sometimes a cowboy hat =  _ Ode to Blob _ . Her most recent creation sported a gargantuan blob in a pale blush, adorned with a smiley face and a lime cowboy hat. Also, a mustache. She didn’t like to be predictable. 

Professor Blackthorn examined the piece with an artist’s eye. He seemed to linger along every line and curve. Finally, he said, “The art itself is fine. You’re obviously creative. You have vision, but you doubt yourself, so you use humor as a defense mechanism. That’s not a bad thing, just an observation.” 

Emma was surprised. How had he gathered all of that from a painting. From  _ Blob _ ? 

He continued. “I’m not concerned with the technical merit of your work. That’s not really important. I am, however, concerned that you’re trapping yourself into a box of untapped potential.” 

“I disagree,” said Emma, desperately grappling to avoid having to redo an assignment. 

Professor Blackthorn raised an eyebrow. “Elaborate, please.” 

“ _ Ode to Blob III  _ clearly represents my distrust of, uh, the government.” 

He bit his lip, clearly trying to suppress a smile. “Is that so?” 

“Definitely yes,” said Emma, a bit too loudly. “Each of the blobs is a different color and wears a different accessory, representing the different citizens of America, see? But they’re all blobs. They’re all squashed by a government that cares more about its political agenda than for its people.” 

“As true and not pulled out of your ass as that may be, the meaning of your art is not what concerns me.” 

Emma tugged at her ponytail. “Then what’s the problem?” 

“They lack variation. I mean, three blob paintings, Emma?” 

“I’m doing a series,” Emma protested. 

“You’re missing the point of art,” said Professor Blackthorn. “You need to be creating something new with every blank canvas.” 

“How come you’re coming down on me about this? Cristina only paints faeries. Simon only uses his canvases to make posters for his band. I haven’t heard you calling either of them out.” Emma hated to bring Cristina into this, but her brain was too hissy to pull up another example. She was tired and hungry, and her claws were out. 

“Because Simon and Cristina let their emotions guide their art. Every one of Cristina’s faeries is different and calls on a different emotion. Even Simon’s band posters are themed after different songs,” explained Professor Blackthorn. “But your  _ Ode to Blob  _ series is empty and lacks passion.” 

“I literally just explained to you the profound political meaning,” said Emma. 

Professor Blackthorn laughed. “You and I both know that was complete bullshit. I’m not going to make you redo anything, Emma. I just want you to make me feel something with your art.” 

“And what do you suggest I make you feel?” asked Emma, leaning against a nearby table covered in paint bottles and brushes.

“Sorrow. Anguish. Passion. Heat. Lust,” he supplied, crossing his arms. 

Emma laughed. “It might be hard to paint heat or lust when I’ve never really felt it.” 

She immediately regretted the words. It was one thing for Cristina to know that she’d never had sex, never even kissed someone; it was quite another for her professor to know. 

“So experience is what you’re lacking,” said Professor Blackthorn. 

Emma nodded, knowing a furious, damning blush had already claimed her from the cheekbones to the tips of the ears. She kept her eyes trained on the floor. 

“I could help with that, you know,” he said, voice low. “If you wanted me to.” 

Her mouth fell open. Words had abandoned her. Only her rushing heartbeat seemed capable of creating sound. 

Professor Blackthorn laughed, and the sound was somehow both silky and rough. “For your art, of course.” 

And then he used those artists’ eyes to pick Emma apart. She was the  _ Mona Lisa  _ and he was some Italian art critic poised to declare it a masterpiece. He came towards her until they were standing toe-to-toe, breath-to-breath. 

His hand, splattered with a dried-up rainbow, moved to cup her face. The pad of his thumb brushed against her bottom lip, and she opened against the touch. Closed her eyes and let him take her in. 

He pressed their bodies together, leaned into her ear. “What do you want from me, Emma?”

Even the brush of his breath against her skin was tantalizing. 

He framed her face with both hands, pushing his fingers into her blonde hair. He arched his body against her.

“What can I teach you?” 

His voice was steady. Almost lazy. He pushed his glasses into his hair and let her pull him in until their faces were an inch apart. He smiled. 

“Kiss me,” she said, breathlessly. “Please.” 

He did. His lips slid against hers, and it was an ocean wave breaking against dry sand. High tide had come, and Emma was ready. His mouth was warm, the stroke of his tongue steady.   
Languid hands - _artist_ hands - danced along her waist. Swirled against the hem of her shirt. He pulled her knees against him before picking her up and carrying her to the table, knocking aside bottles of paint in his haste. 

Emma leaned back on her elbows and watched as he drew uneven breaths. “Professor?” 

He smirked. “Yes, Ms. Carstairs?” 

“Can you take your shirt off?” 

“Only if you take off yours. And let your hair down.” 

Emma wasted no time. She tore her shirt over her head and pulled the scrunchie from her head, throwing both to the side without bothering to check where they’d landed. While she was liberating herself, she also kicked away her shoes and socks. 

“Much better,” she noted, lowering herself back onto the table. 

“I agree,” he said. 

He was above her now, straddling her hips. His chocolate curls were tearing at the edges of her reality, and she wanted to touch them. She reached a hand out, but he caught her wrist. 

“Hold on, Ms. Carstairs,” he said, voice low. “That’s not how we do things in my classroom.” 

His hold on her wrist was fire, heavenly fire. She wanted to burn. 

“Please.” 

Professor Blackthorn smirked and brought his mouth to her neck. “Please, what?” he purred into her sensitive skin. 

Emma gasped. “Please,  _ sir _ .” 

“Good girl,” he said, rewarding her with a languid hip-roll. 

She dove her hands into his hair, and it was every bit as soft as she’d imagined. She wrapped it around her fingers. 

“Pull it,” he said, and she did. She tugged at his hair, using it to pull herself closer to him. 

“Fuck, Emma,” he rasped. She could feel him smiling against his neck, and the sensation released a pulse of white heat between her thighs. She closed her eyes and clamped down on it, grinding up against Professor Blackthorn with abandon. 

“Can I take your pants off?” 

Emma nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

He tugged her jeans down, using his tongue to remind her where they’d been. Her pants hit the floor, and he chuckled darkly. “No underwear?” 

Emma flushed. She found underwear constricting, and often chose not to wear it. She hadn’t even thought about the implications of her vendetta in sexual situations. 

She didn’t have long to feel embarrassed. The feeling of Professor Blackthorn’s tongue between her legs was a much more exciting topic for her brain to ponder. She looked down the line of her body. Half an hour ago, she’d never have imagined she’d be lying on Professor Blackthorn’s painting table in her bra with his tongue teasing her. 

She wasn’t fucking complaining. 

Professor Blackthorn’s hands were stroking her thighs, and she could only think of every careful stroke and brush those hands had made. He was an artist and she was the canvas, ready to cover her in stars. 

He moved back up to her mouth, breathing heavily. They both were, she realized. Gasping and breaking. “Were you watching, Ms. Carstairs?” 

Emma tried to speak, but every word she’d ever learned had been dissolved into oblivion. His mouth pushed against hers, and she pushed back. His lips stayed on hers, but his hand trailed beneath her legs. He slid a finger inside of her, curling it with the expertise that only came with experience. 

Emma moaned against his mouth, pushing against the digit that was now moving in time with music she could feel but not hear. They rocked together until Emma felt herself reaching the edge. She dug her nails into Professor Blackthorn’s shoulders and moved her hips back for the breaking thrust. 

His hand slid away before she had the chance. She railed against his thigh, releasing a cry of disappointment. 

“Not yet, Ms. Carstairs,” he said. 

“Please, sir,” Emma begged, fisting her hands into his boxers. 

He ran his fingers through her hair, paying no mind to her desperate thrusts. “I love your hair,” he said. “It’s goddess hair.” 

“Thanks,” said Emma, breathless and annoyed. “Please fuck me now, sir.” 

He nipped at her neck. “Such an attitude.” 

Without further preamble, he guided Emma’s hands to the waistband of his boxers and helped her tug them down. It was clear that he was every bit as ready for this as Emma was. He fumbled with something in his hand - a condom, Emma realized - and slid it over his large cock. 

He braced his elbows on either side of her head and lowered himself into place, ready to push in. “Are you sure, Ms. Carstairs?” 

Emma whimpered. “Yes, holy shit, are you stupid?” 

He laughed and trapped her mouth in a hungry kiss as he thrust in. Emma gasped. It was unlike anything she’d ever felt before. The pressure was intense, and painful at first. 

“Okay?” asked Professor Blackthorn. 

She nodded, and pulled him closer to urge him on. He didn’t waste time. They quickly developed a toe-curling rhythm, and Emma found herself close to the edge. 

“I think I’m gonna,” she whispered, but it was too late. She slammed into climax, crying out. But Professor Blackthorn didn’t stop. He only slowed for a moment before picking his pace up again. 

The tension in Emma was building again, and she felt like she could cry from the intensity of her pleasure. 

“Such a good girl,” growled Professor Blackthorn. 

She came again, pulling at his hair as she did. She felt him do the same moments later with a sound that almost sent her racing again. 

Professor Blackthorn pulled out, and she was pulled into his arms. He held her as they caught their breath, both still spinning with post-orgasm ecstasy. 

“Excellent work, Ms. Carstairs,” he said. “I hope you’ve learned something.” 

# 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Hope you enjoyed <3   
> don't try this at home.   
> Fic song: "Kathleen" by Catfish and the Bottlemen


End file.
